Under the Dome

The day had started so well. She’d been up early (well… ten; early for her) and she’d had no intention of blowing off work. Then Samantha Bushey had called to say she’d gotten some new Bratz on eBay and to ask if Dodee wanted to come over and help torture them. Bratz-torture was something they’d gotten into in high school—buy them at yard sales, then hang them, pound nails into their stupid little heads, douse them with lighter fluid and set them on fire—and Dodee knew they should have grown out of it, they were adults now, or almost. It was kid-stuff. Also a little creepy, when you really thought about it. But the thing was, Sammy had her own place out on the Motton Road—just a trailer, but all hers since her husband had taken off in the spring—and Little Walter slept practically all day. Plus Sammy usually had bitchin weed. Dodee guessed she got it from the guys she partied with. Her trailer was a popular place on the weekends. But the thing was, Dodee had sworn off weed. Never again, not since all that trouble with the cook. Never again had lasted over a week on the day Sammy called.

“You can have Jade and Yasmin,” Sammy coaxed. “Also, I’ve got some great you-know.” She always said that, as if someone listening in wouldn’t know what she was talking about. “Also, we can you-know.”

Dodee knew what that you-know was, too, and she felt a little tingle Down There (in her you-know), even though that was also kid-stuff, and they should have left it behind long ago.

“I don’t think so, Sam. I have to be at work at two, and—”

“Yasmin awaits,” Sammy said. “And you know you hate dat bitch.”

Well, that was true. Yasmin was the bitchiest of the Bratz, in Dodee’s opinion. And it was almost four hours until two o’clock. Further and, if she was a little late, so what? Was Rose going to fire her? Who else would work that shit job?

“Okay. But just for a little while. And only because I hate Yasmin.”

Sammy giggled.

“But I don’t you-know anymore. Either you-know.”

“Not a problem,” Sammy said. “Come quick.”

So Dodee had driven out, and of course she discovered Bratz-torture was no fun if you weren’t a little high, so she got a little high and so did Sammy. They collaborated on giving Yasmin some drain-cleaner plastic surgery, which was pretty hilarious. Then Sammy wanted to show her this sweet new camisole she’d gotten at Deb, and although Sam was getting a little bit of a potbelly, she still looked good to Dodee, perhaps because they were a little bit stoned—wrecked, in fact—and since Little Walter was still asleep (his father had insisted on naming the kid after some old bluesman, and all that sleeping, yow, Dodee had an idea Little Walter was retarded, which would be no surprise given the amount of rope Sam had smoked while carrying him), they ended up getting into Sammy’s bed and doing a little of the old you-know. Afterward they’d fallen asleep, and when Dodee woke up Little Walter was blatting—holy shit, call NewsCenter 6—and it was past five. Really too late to go in to work, and besides, Sam had produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, and they had one-shot two-shot three-shot-four, and Sammy decided she wanted to see what happened to a Baby Bratz in the microwave, only the power was out.

Dodee had crept back to town at roughly sixteen miles an hour, still high and paranoid as hell, constantly checking the rearview mirror for cops, knowing if she did get stopped it would be by that redhaired bitch Jackie Wettington. Or her father would be taking a break from the store and he’d smell the booze on her breath. Or her mother would be home, so tired out from her stupid flying lesson that she had decided to stay home from the Eastern Star Bingo.

Please, God, she prayed. Please get me through this and I’ll never you-know again. Either you-know. Never in this life.

God heard her prayer. Nobody was home. The power was out here too, but in her altered state, Dodee hardly noticed. She crept upstairs to her room, shucked out of her pants and shirt, and laid down on her bed. Just for a few minutes, she told herself. Then she’d put her clothes, which smelled of ganja, in the washer, and put herself in the shower. She smelled of Sammy’s perfume, which she must buy a gallon at a time down at Burpee’s.

Only she couldn’t set the alarm with the power out and when the knocking at the door woke her up it was dark. She grabbed her robe and went downstairs, suddenly sure that it would be the redheaded cop with the big boobs, ready to put her under arrest for driving under the influence. Maybe for crack-snacking, too. Dodee didn’t think that particular you-know was against the law, but she wasn’t entirely sure.